


Statement of David Wong

by labyrinthineRetribution



Category: John Dies at the End - David Wong, The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26051611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labyrinthineRetribution/pseuds/labyrinthineRetribution
Summary: The horror crossover event of the century: Academic Brits vs American Midwest Fuck Ups, both with roughly the same amount of competency
Relationships: John Cheese/Amy Sullivan/David Wong
Comments: 16
Kudos: 23





	Statement of David Wong

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, welcome to my attempt at combining my two favorite pieces of horror media

[INT. MAGNUS INSTITUTE, ARCHIVES, ARCHIVIST’S OFFICE]

[TAPE CLICKS ON.]

**ARCHIVIST**

Right. What's all this then?

[SHUFFLING OF PAPERS]

[DEEP SIGH] 

Okay.

Statement of Natasha Catalia, regarding a curious Game Boy Color in their possession. Statement given July 15th, 2014. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement be-

[DOOR OPENS]

**TIM**

Hey boss, now a good time-

Oh. Oh, I'll just-

**ARCHIVIST**

Tim, it's _fine_ , what did you need?

**TIM**

Er- uh, we got another statement- from America? It's, um- it's _them_ again. 

**ARCHIVIST**

( _deep groaning_ ) Oh for _God's_ _sake_ -

**TIM**

I mean, I was just going to toss it in the bin, but Elias told me to hand it off to you?

**ARCHIVIST**

Wh- Elias? Why would Elias do that?

**TIM**

( _confused shrug noises_ ) I dunno’, figured you would. I don’t envy you though, ( _amused chuckle_ ) these guys really are something else. Remember the one with the- the uh... ( _excitedly_ ) the throat spiders- yeah! That was it. 

**ARCHIVIST**

( _deadpan_ ) Vividly.

**TIM**

Christ, I mean- where do you even come up with that crap? 

**ARCHIVIST**

( _cutting Tim off_ ) I don’t know and I don’t _care_. I thought I had made it perfectly clear to Elias that I would no longer be accepting statements of this... particular nature, but I see I’ll have to bring it up yet again. Just- leave it on the desk there if you would.

**TIM**

Right.

[FOOTSTEPS, PAPER RUSTLING]

What if they are real though?

**ARCHIVIST**

( _incredulous_ ) Uh- what? 

**TIM**

I- I’m just saying, these _certainly_ aren’t the strangest statements we’ve ever gotten. It isn’t completely impossible, you know?

[CHAIR SCRAPING, ARCHIVIST STANDS UP AND SIGHS HEAVILY]

**ARCHIVIST**

It also isn’t completely impossible that I could burst into flames right at this moment, but that isn’t the _point_ , Tim. Their statements are almost impossible to read- full of nonsensical details and contradictory evidence that can't be followed up on. None of these apparently apocalyptic events have ever been documented in any sort of official or credible sense, and they’ve reported- _on multiple occasions_ \- to be under the influence of some sort of mind altering substances. I wouldn’t trust them to accurately tell me what they had for breakfast this morning. This kind of rubbish is _exactly_ the last thing I need to be focusing on and I’d appreciate it if people would stop treating this place like a discount haunted house for _five minutes_.

[PAUSE]

**TIM**

( _slightly stunned_ ) Well- well alright then.

**ARCHIVIST**

( _sigh_ ) I- I am sorry for that.

**TIM**

Jeez, man. Are you, alright? I mean-

**ARCHIVIST**

Yes- yes, I- I am fine, I just... haven’t been sleeping well. You know how it is.

**TIM**

( _affirmative noises_ )

**ARCHIVIST**

I just- I-

Could you grab Elias for me?

**TIM**

You got it.

[DOOR CREAKS AS TIM SHUTS IT BEHIND HIM. JON SIGHS HEAVILY AND TIDIES SOME PAPERS ON HIS DESK. A MINUTE OR SO OF SILENCE PASSES UNTIL HIS DOOR OPENS, ELIAS WALTZING INSIDE.]

**ELIAS**

( _smugly_ ) You rang?

[ARCHIVIST HOLDS UP THE “STATEMENT”]

**ARCHIVIST**

I thought we discussed this.

**ELIAS**

Er...?

**ARCHIVIST**

( _bitterness creeping into his voice_ ) I was under the impression that I wouldn’t have to deal with _these_ anymore, yet another one finds its way onto my desk.

**ELIAS**

Then throw it out, Jon.

**ARCHIVIST**

I want to know why.

**ELIAS**

Why you should throw it out...?

**ARCHIVIST**

Why you keep entertaining them! I mean- these things are barely worth the scrap paper they’re written on. I cannot for the _life_ of me think of a single reason why you’d-

**ELIAS**

I think they’re quite funny, to be honest.

[HARD PAUSE]

**ARCHIVIST**

_What_.

**ELIAS**

Look, Jon, our job here is to simply read statements and follow them up. That’s it. I know dredgeing through all the- um, more far-fetched ones seems tedious, but it has to be done.

**ARCHIVIST**

( _exasperated_ ) But, I just-

**ELIAS**

I need to get back to work, Jon, and I'd suggest you do the same. You can complain and pout all you'd like, but the fact of the matter is they won't let up until they choose to, and nothing can change that. No use in getting all worked up about it. Just- think of it as junk food for the time being.

[ELIAS EXITS]

[ANNOYED JON NOISES. HE CLEARS HIS THROAT]

**ARCHIVIST**

Statement of David Wong, regarding a... ( _sigh_ ) meat house. Statement given May 23rd, 2016. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

**ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)**

Hi again assholes. Look, I know I said that other statement would be the last, but I lied and here we are. I would apologize for constantly badgering you with unwanted reports about the horrors of the American Midwest, but I’m not sorry and this is also technically your job so who’s fault is it really? 

Anyway, this requires some backstory so I’m just gonna go ahead and dive dick first into that now. Have you ever been inside a whale? Or any sort of large animal made of meat, really. I have. 

It was a few years back, maybe right after the spider incident. Don’t ask me which one, they’ve all blended together in my mind in an enteral orgy of bulbous abdomens and twitching legs. Anyway, John, Amy and I were doing this road trip over to the east coast- maybe the Jersey area, John had found this guy on Ebay who was selling off a bunch of old nails which he claimed were the actual ones used to pin Jesus himself to the cross. At only $49.95, I’d say that’s a steal. John’s plan was to use them to fashion a nail bomb, and took the nine hour drive opportunity to practice any and all nail related innuendos. I had never before understood the urge to shove your own face through a window but it was the only emotion I was capable of during that time.

While John was dealing with what he called “negotiations” and what I called “getting high with the seller and talking him down from 50 bucks for a box of bloody nails,” Amy and I had gone down to this beach over in Spring Lake. I really could not tell you why, it wasn’t a particularly nice day and the best place to eat was a greasy chicken shack where you could feel the oil in the air once you entered a 20 yard radius from it, but Amy had insisted. It was nice, depending on your definition of the word, but any definition you might have would immediately be bitch slapped across the face once we came across the dead whale.

It was awful, this horrible, blubbery mass of flesh and rot. We had smelled it the second we arrived, but we had just figured that was more the smell of New Jersey as collective rather than the fault of any one dead animal. It was lying on its side, its mouth agape and dried blood caking the top of its head. I think it might have been a humpback, but don’t quote me on that. 

Amy wanted to leave immediately, as most people do when confronted with several tons of decaying marine life, but something kept me there. Most likely some morbid curiosity, or bragging rights to John that I had spent the afternoon inspecting a fucking dead whale instead of doing drugs or literally anything else.

I rounded the side and found that most of its stomach had already rotted away, leaving this- cavern of meat. It was fucked, don’t get me wrong, and it smelled like someone had been force fed sardines for a month straight, immediately shat their pants and died, and then was dragged into a hot car for yet another month. Something that was basically impossible to notice though, is that the insides were teeming with life. Crabs, seagulls, unknown flesh eating parasites, you name it and the bastard’s innards were a breeding ground for it, shit I had never even seen before. It was like an apartment complex for God’s underwater mistakes. Did you know that some dead whales are habitats to over 400 species? That’s probably a lie, I just googled some shit about whales, but it sounds cool enough to be true.

All of that was probably just a lot of white noise, but I needed it to illustrate my point. The concept of living in the guts of something like that, the symbiotic nature of a home and its inhabitants. Imagine being in that thing when it was alive. The sound of its lungs, the twitching of its inner walls, and you being a part of all that.

Fuck, I guess a better metaphor would have been bacteria in a human digestive system. The whale doesn’t give a fuck if you’re there or not, it needs to focus on eating krill and then shitting out that krill. You’d die without that bacteria. There’s a metaphor in there.

It was around midnight a few weeks ago when we had gotten the call. I don’t know why people insist on calling in the dead of night, maybe it adds to the ambiance or something, but I feel like if you’ve waited this long to get the discount Ghostbusters involved, you can tough it out a few more hours. That’s just me though.

I don’t even know why I’m complaining, I haven’t gone to bed before midnight since junior high.

John and I decided not to bring Amy along, since her sleep schedule had been fucked six ways to Sunday with this new medication she’s on, real heavy shit, and since she’s the only one in this house who makes any sort of reliable income and I would prefer not to eat expired takeout from the dumpster out behind the Panda Express, we let her rest.

The call had been from this frantic woman, sounded like she was somewhere in her mid-50s, raving about this old house on her husband’s property a few miles south. She kept talking about how it was alive, how it was her fault and that this was her punishment- typical Christian guilt bullshit, it really isn't important. At that point, I really didn’t think this was anything more serious than an old lady remembering the body she helped her husband hide in the 60’s and her needing to find a way to excuse the gnawing pit she felt in her stomach each night. She didn’t need an exorcism, she needed a confessional. 

She wasn’t giving out any specifics, so I handed the phone off to John and went to grab some gear from the junk room.

Speaking of the junk room, I would like to insert my gratitude here for you guys taking all of our unwanted paranormal items over the years, it's been a really big help, by which I mean I now have enough counter space in my house to eat kitchen at a table instead on the floor like a goddamn heathen because the cursed gauntlet that makes you jack off until you die is taking up too much room.

What do you guys do with that crap anyway? I place my bets on you chucking it the second it arrives, but maybe England’s a bit more professional than that. Maybe you recycle.

So, we’re on the road now, John is going on about how he charmed that distressed MILF into giving him the address and also her number, and I tell him that we already have her number because she called us and also that he’s a fucking idiot. The house is way out in the sticks, there’s this thing here where if you drive long enough you’re just surrounded by corn fields- maybe you’ll pass a desecrated church every few miles.

You ever watch Children of the Corn? If you haven’t, don’t whatever you’re imagining is either spot on or far more entertaining than the actual film.

We finally arrive at the address, but the house is about another quarter mile back from the road, this long dirt driveway being the only indication you aren’t just driving off into the woods. I remember it being a quiet night, no cicadas or anything, just a familiar stench of death, but honestly so many things smell like death you kind of stop thinking twice about it. I mean, think of all the places people have died over the course of human history. Maybe someone’s died right where you’re sitting.

Looking at the house from the outside, you’d think nothing of it. Just your average farmhouse, white porch with a swing, painted a faded yellow, even one of those rooster weather vanes at the top. Like something out of Charlotte’s Web. The stink of meat still hung heavy in the air, but there was a barn out back, and you could probably explain it away if you have a limited knowledge about farms like me and John do. We flipped a coin to see who’d get the barn and who'd get the house, and then we flipped it three more times because we kept dropping and losing the coins.

The door to the house was unlocked, which isn’t unusual but does automatically make the situation a fuckton more creepy. It didn’t seem like anyone was home, but I still called out a few times in case this was a shoot first and ask questions later sort of house, like mine is.

Once you’ve been doing this job as long as I have, you find you can start picking up on supernatural situations fairly quickly. If a ghost wants to fuck with you, it won’t be subtle about it. None of that turning-on-the-TV-and-knocking-cups-over kiddie pool shit. I fucking wish I could wake up in a Paranormal Activity movie, that’s possession on easy mode. Then I’d promptly kill myself for being in any way associated with those films.

The first strange thing I remember noting was this weirdass rumbling noise. It was rhythmic and deep, like being inside the chest of some great beast.

The second thing was when I tried to go deeper into the house, every step warm and squishy, like I was stepping on a road paved in babies faces.

The third thing finally tipped me off, nothing serious, I just flipped on my flashlight (I heard you call them torches. That’s stupid. Feel ashamed) and noticed every surface was made of flesh. The walls, the ceiling, the furniture, all of it was just piles of meat and bone and bloody viscera. The walls we pockmarked and pitted, glistening and wet. Meaty protrusions that served as furniture grew out of the floor as far as the eye could see, all thrumming and twitching to the same beat of that deep humming, which I realized then was breathing.

I smelled burning rubber, and looked down to find that my fucking shoes were smoking. A closer inspection found that the floor was coated in some sort of slimy film, most likely acidic. This house was trying to fucking eat me.

I pride myself on the fact that I do not often have physical reactions to the shit I have to deal with on a near biweekly basis, no matter how unholy or universe shattering it is, so the fact that I nearly hurled right there should tell you how awful that place is. Many creatures have taunted me with the threat of consumption, that their bellies would be home to my eternal suffering, but only then did I fear that shit might actually come to pass. I turned to leave- to go grab John, walk to the car, and spend the rest of the night hurling Molotov cocktails at that nightmare house- but there was no door. 

Just meat.

I stated earlier that I do not often have physical reactions to stressful situations, but I feel unbridled rage and panicked channeled through shooting angrily at a flesh wall for several minutes is an entirely different category. With each bullet, the lumpy, pink wall began to leak blood, and the house shuddered, shaking me to my core. So the place could be hurt, but it would take me more time then I cared to dedicate to fatally wound it. 

I grabbed my phone and dialed John, surprised at having a signal in there. A lot of haunted areas just fucking kill your cell service, what can I say? 

I filled him in on my current status- being slowly digested- and he said he had a plan and abruptly hung up. Several minutes later, he called back to inform me that he no longer had a plan and that a couple of nearby trees were burning down and spreading to others.

You know, now that I'm thinking about it, maybe the metaphor isn't bacteria either. I probably would have died if I stayed in that house, not really the spitting example of symbiosis. 

It's probably more like an anglerfish.

I asked John if the door was still there and he said yes, but it was locked. I told him about my minor victory with the rage induced blind shooting and he told me to hang on. 

The following events were recounted to me by John, as I was too busy being trapped inside a monster house to witness any of it, so feel free to disregard any or all of it.

John sprinted back over to his Jeep and dug through our gear until he found his prize- his homemade shrapnel bombs. Originally he had wanted a cluster bomb, but was unaware that they are too big to be used practically as well as a violation of the Geneva Conventions, although I feel the latter is more of an afterthought for him. He didn't have enough Authentic Jesus Nails to practically construct a functioning bomb, but he ended up buying a few pounds worth of them at a local hardware store that has the misfortune of knowing us by name and having them all blessed, believing it to have essentially the same effect. I don't blame him, all of this is guesswork, why shouldn't it help?

He climbed onto the roof of his car and threw a bomb as hard as he could, the thing soaring through the air as if guided by angelic forces.

It hit the window and bounced back, forcing him to jump off of his car and hide underneath so he wasn't impaled with several dozen bent nails. He claims a few hit him, but any evidence of injury is purely circumstantial. 

His next plan apparently involved scaling the side of the house to get onto the roof. When called out on how that would have been fucking impossible due to the absence of a ladder and the shape of the house, he stated he climbed on of the burning trees. I would call him on his shit, but John has just enough cocaine in his system at all times to allow me to believe that he thought that could be a good idea.

Once on the roof, he dropped another bomb down the chimney. This part I can vouch for because I had to dive behind a bloodsoaked meat couch to keep from having to spend the rest of the weeking digging rusty metal out of my chest. This did seem to have better results than my gun- the house started screaming. This piercing, brain rattling noise rose up from the floor and filled my head. I fell to my knees as my anguish rose to match the house's- it wanted me to know its pain.

After several long, ear bleeding minutes, it stopped. I figured it was time to stop dicking around and crept over to what I can only assume was the kitchen- there's only so much detail you can get out of reddish, veiny lumps.

I rounded a corner and found myself staring at a door- still made of flesh, just assume everything I'm describing is made of the shit- standing slightly ajar. I nudged it open with my foot, leading to a flight of stairs. I felt myself start to sweat, this creeping sense of terror overtaking me. I could hear this deep _thumping_ \- not like the breathing, this was different, it was heavier. I felt it reverberating throughout every part of me. Felt weird in the dick area.

My throat grew scratchy as I descended the steps into pitch darkness. I swung my flashlight back and forth as I surveyed my surroundings. It was a cavernous room, the walls slowly beating in time with that deep thumping. 

The floor was covered in a few inches of thick, warm liquid, a fact I learned after jumping straight into it and soaking my sneakers. I wondered how many shoes I had ruined over the years by doing shit like this. 

I slowly made my way to the center of the room. It was humid as fuck down there, fat drops of sweat kept rolling off my scalp and down my back. I noticed that humming was focused in the center of the room, but nothing was there. Was this place fucking with me?

I mean, of course it was. Why wouldn't it be? Day after day demons would have little committee meetings to decide how to best fuck with me on a spiritual level- and it worked every single time. I bet they trade notes. They go out and grab coffee in a hollowed out Starbucks and talk about the most efficient ways to get me to evacuate my bowels. This is my penance and it will never be finished.

I came to a stop at the center of the room. Have you ever been attacked by wolves- or any sort of canine really. I have, but that's a story for another time. The point is, right before you strike, you can feel it- the anticipation in the air. Something in your body is finely attuned to the fact that your shit is about to get wrecked to the third degree. I felt that feeling right then as something told me to look up.

I found myself looking at a beating human heart. Not the first time this has happened, and it definitely won't be the last. It was massive, as in it was engorged and swollen a hundred times over, like someone had fashioned it out of elastic and filled it with several gallons of water. The heart was beating, and a part of me noticed it was in sync with my own.

I at least had a target for my unbridled terror.

I quickly grabbed the revolver I had shoved into the back of my pants and loaded it with a single silver bullet.

Hey, silver's expensive, alright?

I took aim and fired, the bullet hitting my target dead on. To be fair, if I had missed I would have to seriously reevaluate my competency, which is already in the low teens.

As soon as the bullet embedded itself, the house resumed its screaming. It was much worse down here, it seemed like the walls themselves were shrieking in anguish. I felt like I was about to black out, I ground my teeth and fell to the ground again, soaking my clothes in stagnant blood. Another scream began to harmonize with the houses, and I recognized it as my own. 

Above me, the heart swelled and stretched grotesquely, rocking back and forth wildly- sort of like a horrible meat cocoon. With an awful _pop_ , the thing finally burst, drenching me in a torrential rain of blood and gore.

The house fell into silence.

I lied on the floor for a few minutes, trying and failing to catch my breath. So much blood was seeping into my ass crack- it'd take hours to clean myself. My ears were still ringing, hell, they might have been bleeding. It'd be impossible to check. 

An awful stench slowly filled the air. I sat up and looked around for the source. The walls- they were rotting. Turning shades of purple and brown and green, yellowed puss leaked from the pores and great chunks of flesh started falling away. I sighed and got to my feet- I had to get upstairs before the stairs were unusable.

By the time I reached the top the smell was almost unbearable- you could almost see the cloud of stink. The place was basically melting around me, the decay already bringing flies, all buzzing and eating and fucking and doing whatever the hell else flies do. I reached the "door"- basically a ragged hole cut out of the wall- and stepped out into the night air. I found John smoking a joint on top of the car, watching the forest fire he caused with only mild amusement. He looked me up and down, then back at the house and offered me the joint. 

I took it. We watched as that house turned to bone and ash.

Attached to this statement should be a chunk of rib John and I managed to rip off when it was all over, maybe you guys can analyze it or use it for ritualistic sacrifice. I'm still not entirely convinced you aren't a cult that feeds on fear.

**ARCHIVIST**

Statement ends.

Tim made no mention of whether or not this particular statement was accompanied with any sort of... remains, so I'm inclined to doubt whether or not it exists.

As for the rest of it, well, it's fairly par for the course. Absolutely no way to confirm or deny the account on any sort of official basis, insane details, and by Mr. Wong's own admission, the use of narcotics were involved. As far as I'm concerned, it is complete and utter rubbish.

_But_ , I'm certain this will not be the last we will be hearing from them.

( _scoffing noise_ ) I mean- honestly, what kind of people even have _time_ for this sort of thing?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and i hope you enjoyed it, id really like to hear your thoughts, have a nice rest of your day


End file.
